


Doubting Thomas

by Anonymous



Series: The Adventures of Tom Anderson [2]
Category: Bounty Hunters (TV 2017), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, POV Tom Anderson, Threesome - M/M/M, Twin brother sex as per canon, a little angsty, but happy ending, frequent sex, light non-consensual touching non-sexual, non-consensual truth-telling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Story includes SIBLING INCEST as per the CANON TV SHOW Bounty Hunters. Forward all complaints to Jack Whitehall, the original author (And also to Bradley James, who- when duplicated- makes a person think filthy, filthy things.)Story also involves a threesome relationship with Detective Sergeant Tom Anderson from The Fall. (I could blame Colin Morgan but this one is probably on me.)Warnings: The story also contains, within the context of a non-violent mugging:  NON-sexual but non-consensual drugging and truth-telling.
Relationships: Keegan Sherman/Webb Sherman, Tom Anderson (The Fall TV)/Keegan Sherman/Webb Sherman
Series: The Adventures of Tom Anderson [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779778
Comments: 24
Kudos: 57
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story includes SIBLING INCEST as per the CANON TV SHOW Bounty Hunters. Forward all complaints to Jack Whitehall, the original author (And also to Bradley James, who- when duplicated- makes a person think filthy, filthy things.) 
> 
> Story also involves a threesome relationship with Detective Sergeant Tom Anderson from The Fall. (I could blame Colin Morgan but this one is probably on me.)
> 
> Warnings: The story also contains, within the context of a non-violent mugging: NON-sexual but non-consensual drugging and truth-telling.

Two weeks into Tom’s relationship with Webb and Keegan Sherman, he asks about the nightly ritual.

He didn’t recognize the pattern at first; an unforgivable lapse for a police detective. But in his defense, he was still in shock at being so welcomed into the twin brothers’ lives. 

“Why," Tom begins, and has to clear his throat.

Webb hums, watching his own fingers as he opens Tom’s dress shirt, button by button. 

“This.“ Tom gestures at the meticulous way that Webb is undressing him for bed. Every night it’s the same; Webb and Keegan leading Tom upstairs, positioning him by the bedside, Webb removing Tom’s clothes, Keegan dressing him in new, custom-made, monogrammed silk pajamas.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” Tom says.

“Well then.”

It’s not an answer, and Tom should let it rest. He’s still afraid that he’ll wake up one morning and they’ll show him the door, already bored of their latest acquisition. But it hasn’t happened yet, so he’s venturing into deeper waters. Trying to understand both brothers. Trying to understand himself. “Is it because of that first night?“ 

Webb glances up, full lips twisting into a smile. “That was quite an evening, wasn’t it, my sweet."

Tom nods, remembering how he’d sought refuge at the brothers’ mansion, exhausted and clutching a bag of evidence of police corruption. After the brothers had agreed to help him, Webb had lead Tom to this very bedroom, where he’d undressed Tom, brought him to orgasm- twice- then tucked him into bed. 

“Mmm, yes, quite an evening," Webb murmurs.

“Aye. It was.“

“While that’s a interesting theory, Detective Sergeant Anderson, I’m afraid it’s incorrect.”

“What’s that, brother?“

Tom looks from one beautiful man to the other. It’s Keegan, Webb’s identical twin, sauntering through the room from the attached ensuite, his deep blue silken pajamas sliding over his defined muscles. He’s wearing a matching outfit to Webb’s, save for the hand lettered monogram upon the chest. 

“Our Thomas is wondering why we so enjoy undressing him every night.“

“Why wouldn’t we?" Keegan asks, and takes Tom’s discarded shirt from his brother. 

Webb slides both hands up Tom’s bare chest. “My thoughts exactly.”

“So lovely, our Tom," Keegan sighs, and presses a kiss to Tom’s shoulder. 

Tom shivers as Keegan saunters to the bedroom’s laundry chute, one of the many self-indulgent modifications they’ve made to their historic Northern Irish stone manor. “That’s- Thanks,” Tom stammers out. “But- there’s got to be another reason, yeah?”

“Now why do you say that?” Webb asks.

Keegan steps over to stand behind Tom’s back, arms sliding around Tom’s chest. “Yes, Tom, why?”

Tom watches Webb ease his belt from its loops, a slow unthreading until he can drop the strap to the floor. Webb unbuttons Tom’s trousers even slower, taking down the zipper one notch at a time. 

“There’s the sex," Tom says, though he doubts that’s the reason. Neither Webb nor Keegan delay any self-gratification. Earlier that evening, Webb had interrupted dinner to bend Tom over the table, fucking Tom senseless while Keegan sucked him off.

“Think of it like Christmas,” Keegan says.

“Christmas?” Tom asks, glancing over his shoulder at Keegan, whose blue eyes are rounded and pleased.

“Christmas,” Keegan sighs, and rubs his hands up and down Tom’s chest.

“That is a good analogy, brother.”

“How am I like Christmas?” Tom asks.

“You’re the presents under the tree,” Keegan tells him, as if this should be obvious. 

“Mmm, yes. And always our favorite present.”

“Yes, the special one we want to play with all day.”

“And keep in our bed all night.”

Tom laughs, though he knows he shouldn’t encourage them. It’s not healthy, how they’re objectifying him, but he doesn’t care. All three of them are mental in their own twisted way. It works for them, though, and that’s all that matters.

“Actually,” Keegan goes on, “maybe Tom’s more like a Christmas puppy.”

“Mother and Father never got us a puppy for Christmas, Keegan-”

“If they had, I mean-“

“Thomas is not our pet," Webb says, and lowers both Tom’s trousers and his pants to the floor. “He’s our…”

Webb’s abrupt silence has something cold twisting through Tom’s stomach. Webb never stops speaking mid-sentence, especially not while looking so uncertain.

“He’s ours,” Keegan interjects. “That’s what he is. He’s ours.”

Webb gets to his feet, his arrogant façade back in place. “Indeed, brother. He’s ours. Aren’t you, Thomas.”

“Yes," Tom says quickly. “Yes. I’m yours.”

Keegan’s arms tighten. “Tom, you’re shaking.“

“Cold," Tom lies, and doesn’t say another word or ask another question, not the whole time Keegan dresses him in his pajamas, and not even after the brothers take him to bed.

When Tom started this bizarre threesome with the Sherman twins, he didn’t actually imagine what daily life would bring. He’s glad now that he didn’t, because whatever he’d imagined would have definitely not been as good as it is.

He’s still on Medical Leave from the PSNI, so Tom has all day to wander the mansion. When Webb and Keegan are working, Tom swims in their pool, uses their spa, and reads in their library. Meals wait for him in the diningroom, whether he wants them or not, and he has daily appointments with physical therapists and sports trainers to heal his shoulder and gunshot injuries. 

When the brothers aren’t working, they usually include Tom in their recreations. He gets more affection that he thought he’d see in his life. Not only sexual, but the casual physical touches that Keegan had mentioned. Tom will feel a hand rest warm upon his shoulder when he sits down to meals, or fingers brushing his arm in the hallway. Casual kisses are brushed against his cheek in the bedroom ensuite after he shaves in the morning. And when they watch telly together, Tom sometimes reclines upon the sofa, head in Keegan’s lap, feet in Webb’s, being petted and massaged like some pampered housecat.

But the best of all- even better than the sex in some ways- is when Tom wakes up in the morning, pressed between the two of them, pressed beneath a too-warm, too-heavy sprawl of gorgeous bodies. 

It’s perfect- so perfect that he’s increasingly sure he’s going to fuck it up.

Six weeks into his fantasy, he actually goes and does it.

Tom comes in from a walk around the grounds to Webb and Keegan shouting at each other in the library. Books litter the floor, smashed glass shines on the carpet, and the brothers are red-faced and shoving each other as the shout in the middle of it all.

Tom’s police training kicks in; he steps in to de-escalate the conflict.

Instead, the brothers turn their fury on him, which sends Tom’s training right out the window. At some point during the argument, Tom hears ‘get out’ so he does, storming from the room, furiously grabbing his jacket, and slamming open the front doors. 

His fury drives him down the Belfast streets until he realizes its source. It’s the memory of his father, shouting him out of the family home. 

The old pain hits him hard; he can’t breathe, can’t walk. So he ducks into an alley and falls against the cold brick, punching the wall to hold back tears.

It’s only fifteen minutes before Tom’s mobile is pinging.

_Webb (21:40): Our behavior was inexcusable._

_Keegan (21:40): Yes, we both apologize, profoundly._

_Keegan (21:41) Please come home??_

The word ‘home’ gets Tom up on his feet, unsteady but gasping with relief. It repeats on a loop all the way back to the mansion.

They don’t talk about it until later that night. They’re all sprawled naked in bed, Webb and Keegan having spent the past hour very tenderly apologizing to Tom, without the need of any words at all. 

Tom is dozing in his usual place in the Sherman bed, right in the middle, between the two brothers.

“It will happen again," Webb says.

Keegan draws in his breath. Holds it. 

“There are things, Thomas, that you-“

“Webb-" Keegan interrupts.

“He deserves to know, brother.”

Keegan’s whimper belongs to someone far younger.

Tom adjusts his arm around Keegan’s shoulders, holds him tight. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Thomas, we-“

“You have ghosts from your past," Tom interrupts. “And so do I. It was them I was yelling at. Not either of you.”

Silence fills the darkened bedroom, until Keegan speaks, soft. “Who was it for you?”

“Let him rest, brother,” Webb says, and settles himself to sleep. 

Tom lays there a long while, wondering why Webb didn't let him answer. Wondering how important he really is to the two brothers. Wondering how long his time with them will last.

 _Fuck it,_ he decides. Even if things are temporary, it’s still the best relationship he’s ever fucking had. He’ll be damned if he won’t enjoy every moment they want him around. 

Things get easier between them after that, like some strange storm has passed that Tom hadn’t known was brewing. The calendar somehow tips over into two solid months of Tom living with the two of them. Before he knows it, there’s only two weeks until he’s to return to Serious Crimes.

He’s realizing- to his shock- that he doesn’t actually want to go back.

Tom is puzzling about that fact one night, as he sits with Webb and Keegan on the sofa watching movies. This time Keegan is stretched out with his head on Tom’s lap and his feet on Webb’s. Tom is absently playing with Keegan’s hair as they watch Lethal Weapon. He hasn’t been paying attention, and is startled when Keegan speaks.

“What, exactly, is Mel Gibson’s appeal?"

“Certainly not that haircut,” Webb drawls out.

“Mmm. Ghastly.”

“And he’s such a brute.”

“Why do people find that appealing?”

“People also like boot cut jeans.”

“Mmm.”

When a car chase stretches into five minutes, Keegan squirms onto his back, and Webb swats at his leg for nearly getting a heel to the groin. Keegan shoves at his brother’s thigh, sticks out his tongue, then looks up at Tom. “When do you go back to work?”

“Two weeks.”

“That’s inhuman! You barely had any time off at all!”

“It was eight weeks, Keegan.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Tom laughs and brushes some hair from Keegan’s furrowed brow, thinking again that the brothers don’t live on same planet as the rest of the population. 

“You aren’t seriously looking forward to investigating homicides all day again.”

“It’s interesting work,” Tom says, but even he can hear his uncertainty.

“Well it sounds dreadful. And you have to deal with murderers.”

“Mmm, murderers are quite distasteful," Webb agrees.

Keegan lifts his head from Tom’s lap and stares at Webb, incredulous. 

Tom doesn’t look over, but he can sense how still Webb is now, and can see the worry in Keegan’s expression, before Keegan squirms back onto his side, to stare at the telly.

For a while they sit and watch the film.

Keegan huffs and reaches for Tom’s hand, placing it on his hair, and Tom obliges, absently tucking the strands behind his ear.

How many murderers, Tom wonders, have the two of them met themselves? How many thugs, how many thieves, how many extortionists? Webb had admitted that he and Keegan were criminals in the art world. It was enough of a conflict with Tom’s life that Webb and Keegan had offered weeks ago to move their crooked business dealings out of the United Kingdom and Ireland. But Tom hasn’t asked about it since. For all he knows-

“It’s done," Webb says.

Tom glances over; finds Webb staring. “Done?”

“Our questionable business dealings,” Webb says, with that practiced, guarded calm that tells Tom he’s watching for a reaction. “As promised, we’ve removed them from your jurisdiction.”

Keegan shoves himself up, outraged. “We’re telling him now?”

“Thomas was clearly thinking about it, so-”

“You should have consulted me!”

“I’m consulting you now.”

“I told you I wanted to tell him! I did all the work!”

“Calm down, brother, it simply appeared as if-“

“I specifically asked you! Yesterday! And you said-“

“So," Tom interrupts, to avoid a truly epic screaming match, “now that you’re legitimate businessmen, does that mean you’re both going to be boring?”

Keegan twists on the couch to glare at him, affronted. “Boring?”

Tom catches Webb’s smile. Approving. “Aye. Like a pair of stodgy old bankers. Watching Downton Abbey and falling sleep in front of the telly at night, only having three minute sex on week-ends-“

“Three minutes!” Keegan roars, and shoves Tom, laughing beneath an onslaught of sloppy kisses, to the floor.

Keegan becomes obsessed by Tom’s return to work. He uses every manipulation he knows, and some he must have learned from Webb, to convince Tom to either extend his furlough or to quit. 

Tom finds his attempts at manipulation flattering, which just proves how truly fucked up he is in the head. But it’s the first time he’s actually being pursued, and by a beautiful, affectionate- although mental- god of a man. 

Webb watches the proceedings with faint amusement, not interfering, but not participating either.

The night before Tom goes back to work, he’s actually uneasy. The corruption scandal he uncovered has his gut churning with worry. He remembers what he used to think of officers like him, officers who turned state’s evidence. It wasn’t kind.

“That’s enough reading,” Keegan announces, startling Tom by yanking the book from his hands and tossing it onto the leather couch where Tom is currently reclining. 

“I was reading that,” Tom protests.

“No you weren’t. You were brooding. An attractive look on you, but very unhealthy. Now come on. We’re going upstairs to take your mind off of things.”

Tom allows Keegan to pull him to his feet. “We’re not waiting for Webb to finish his phone call?” 

“I’ve already told him that we’re going to begin your tantric edging lessons. He’ll join us when he’s able.”

Tom’s not sure what tantric means, but he’s had a lot of practice with edging, living with Webb and Keegan. “Is this a game you’ve made up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Keegan says, leading Tom into the main hallway where ornate statues and paintings line their path to the main stairs. “It’s an ancient art of spiritual and physical cleansing.”

“Oh,” Tom says, feeling stupid. He thought it was sex. “Right. How do you do it?”

“First touching, then fucking and orgasm denial, and finally deep tissue massage. You repeat the process, two to four per hour, for as many hours as you can, until the inevitable full body orgasm.”

“Full body-?” Tom bumps into a statue worth ten years’ of his salary, and hastily rights it. “Sorry- What’s- _How_ many rounds are there?”

“Well let’s just find out, hmm?”

They’re on round six, Tom on his knees on the bed, face buried in the blankets, arse up in the air. Keegan is knelt behind him, pressing his cock easily into Tom’s body. His breath out is loud in the silence as he presses deep. Then his inhale just as much, as he pulls out again.

The rhythmic fucking has gone on for a while this time around. Tom is in no special hurry to have it end. The constant stimulation is oddly, addictively intoxicating. Tom’s head is clear; he’s thoughts vanished in his haze of sensation.

“Must you really go back?” Keegan asks.

Tom blinks open his eyes. “Mmm?”

“Your job, Tom.”

“Mmwuh?”

“Must you go back to your job?”

Keegan sounds like he’s conducting business negotiations. No one wearing a cock ring should be able to do that. But of course he is, even squeezing Tom’s backside as he lazily keeps thrusting, waiting for an answer that’s not going to happen because Tom’s already forgotten the question.

“Certainly your fellow officers can spare you a few more days.”

Fucking hell, they’re talking about his job again? Right _now_? “Keegan-“

“Time to speed things up,” Keegan interrupts, and shifts his angle.

Tom grabs the sheets, shuddering hard, hypersensitized and overstimulated by any brush of his prostate. He rocks forward with the speeding thrusts, nose pressing hard into to the mattress, the slap of Keegan’s sweaty thighs against Tom’s arse completely pornographic. The wet noises that follow are even more so, as Keegan reapplies lubrication until liquid slides down Tom’s quivering thighs.

“Look at your muscles,” Keegan sighs, and runs his slippery palms up and down Tom’s back. “Your sessions with Jorg certainly are paying off. You won’t get personal training like that at your precinct!” 

Tom rolls his eyes; it’s the only protest he can manage.

“And look at this finely sculpted backside, like the hills of Tuscany,” Keegan sighs, two fingers dipping into cleft, fingertips teasing around his cock as he’s fucking, before pressing inside on the next thrust.

“Ohfuck,” Tom breathes at the stretch. “Ohfuck ohfuck-“

“You like that, hmm? Well. You’ll like this even better.”

Tom writhes, his muscles tightening up, the swell of orgasm building fast and hard, his face flushing hot as he starts to-

“Ow! Fuck!”

“No coming yet,” Keegan says, and tightens his grip on Tom’s cock.

Tom swears at him in Irish and English then calls on all the saints. Finally he gives in, panting, head covered with his shaking arms, body still trembling with the edges of the interrupted orgasm.

“What was I saying?” Keegan asks, and pulls his fingers out with a squelch. 

It has another spike of pleasure nearly pitch Tom over, but Keegan pinches Tom’s sensitive prick, and Tom whimpers and does what he’s supposed to, breathing deeply to make his heartrate go down.

“Now I remember,” Keegan says happily. “It was your career.”

“Keegan,” Tom moans, because seriously- this? now?

“We’re hiring a security manager for the manor,” Keegan tells him, and now that Tom’s calming down, he can hear it. The desperation along with the coercion. “The job is yours if you want it. Excellent pay, wonderful health insurance, and gracious employers, of course.”

Tom drops his hands to the mattress and stares across the softly lit bedroom, realizing that no, this isn’t going to wait, is it. They need to discuss this right now.

“What do you say, Tom? Will you take the job?”

“Keegan…“

“You can start tomorrow at full pay.“

Tom pushes himself up to his elbows. “Keegan,” he says.

“Yes, Tom?”

“Will you please…” Tom waves his hand behind him, because Keegan’s prick is still up his arse.

Keegan doesn’t move at first. Then he rests his hands almost gingerly on Tom’s hips, and guides him away.

It’s an awkward fall to the mattress, Tom wincing as he shifts onto his back. Keegan stays up on his knees, looking worried, his blond hair mussed and sweaty as the rest of him, his cock flushed red compared to the cockring. 

Tom laughs, and shakes his head. “Take that off.”

“But we’re not finished-“

“We are for now.” Tom stretches out his legs, then pats the bed at his side, because Keegan looks like a golden god of debauchery and blowjobs, and Tom’s willpower has limits.

Keegan’s does as he’s requested, but lays on his side so that his cock is poking Tom in the hip. He shifts close, his hand easing down Tom’s body, fingertips tracing abdominal muscles.

Tom interrupts its downward by picking up Keegan’s hand in his own. “You don’t give up.”

“Of course I don’t. That’s no way to win.”

Tom lifts Keegan’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trying so hard to keep me here. I’ve never had anyone…” Want me around as much as you do, Tom wants to say, but can’t do it. 

“Never had anyone what?”

“Offer me a job to keep me at their beck and call,” Tom says, and forces a smile. 

“You know that’s not why I-”

“Aye.” Tom presses another kiss to his hand. “I know.”

Keegan tucks an arm under his head, studying Tom’s face. “You’ll miss us,” he says, like a challenge.

“Yes,” Tom agrees, aching at the thought of separation. “I surely will.”

They lay together in silence, their breathing slowing into a matching rhythm.

“I could have convinced you,” Keegan tells him. “Eventually.”

“Such a dirty fighter,” Tom admonishes, and brushes a grateful kiss to the top of his head.

“Takes one to know one,” Keegan informs him, and wraps around Tom’s body, holding tight.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Tom wakes before either Webb or Keegan. In the soft light of early morning, the brothers are beautiful. He aches to stay with them in bed the entire damn day. It has him imagining life as a kept man, right here in the mansion. The idea is worryingly tempting.

“Call in sick," Keegan murmurs.

“Let him be, Keegan," Webb says. 

When Tom gets up, Webb and Keegan shift closer together, closing the space he left behind. Webb gathers Keegan into his arms, just as Tom had seen him do those months ago from the oak tree, when he’d been working surveillance on the brothers. He would have given anything, back then, to be here with them. And now he has to leave.

“Good luck, Thomas," Webb says.

“Come home safe,” Keegan adds.

The word ‘home’ has Tom’s breath catching. Now he _really_ doesn't want to go. “I’ll just be doing paperwork all day. It’ll be a walk in the park, is what.”

As soon as he says it, he remembers his old Gran. Boasts like that, she’d warned, were like candy for spiteful fey. 

Ridiculous old wives tales, to be sure.

His Gran, it turns out, had the right of it after all.

The second Tom steps into the Serious Crimes Division precinct offices, two dozen Detectives fall silent. Indistinct murmurs accompany him on the way to his desk, the hum of conversation only resuming once he shrugs off his leather jacket and sits down.

Once he gets settled, Tom looks around for familiar faces, but when he makes eye contact, his former friends suddenly become engrossed in their laptops. 

The tension remains so palpable Chief Inspector Fitzgerald addresses it at the morning staff meeting. The older woman is sat at the head of the conference table, her dark uniform buttoned to her neck. She’s tough but fair, and has been Tom’s best supporter during the scandal. It seems she’s the only one.

“Our last order of business," she says, “is to welcome back Detective Sergeant Tom Anderson, who risked his life to expose the despicable criminal actions of those corrupt officers in Operations Support, including Chief Inspector Donal Moinahan. Men like those put a black mark upon us all. I’d like to offer my thanks to DS Anderson, for uncovering their crimes, before the corruption could escalate.“

“Ma’am,” Tom says evenly, and doesn’t miss how his fellow detectives exchange glances.

“Right then,” CI Fitzgerald says. “Let’s do our jobs.“ 

Her support eases the tension, but not by much. All day Tom sits at his desk in the middle of everyone, catching up on his paperwork, researching past cases, eating his lunch.

His shift ends without a single person addressing him. 

“They’re clearly idiots,” Keegan says that night.

Tom slouches deeper on the sofa in the brothers’ office. He just walked in the door and is still wearing his jacket. He’s too exhausted from the day, and from the lengthy bus ride to the mansion, to remove it.

“Mannerless idiots,” Webb says, from where he’s sitting on the edge of his desk, in a crisp white button down dress shirt and tailored black trousers. He and Keegan are working on acquiring their next rare art collection. Photos of vaguely pornographic sculptures are hung all over the walls.

“I turned state’s evidence on other officers,” Tom mumbles. “Why should they trust me?”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Keegan asks. “Those other officers were criminals.”

“Mmm, indeed, brother. Perhaps your colleagues aren’t as honest as they seem, Thomas.”

Tom rubs his face, because he’d considered that himself. It's the same mistrust he’d felt about Internal Affairs himself, before this mess. At least he thinks so. He's not sure. For all he knows, his coworkers may all have guilty consciences too. Which is exactly the type of thinking they likely suspect him having. And isn't that just a kick in the bollocks.

“A nutritious meal is what Thomas needs,” Webb announces.

“Mmm, yes. I’ll have René heat up Tom’s dinner.”

“You can bring it up to the bedroom-”

“Along with some herbal tea to help him sleep.”

“In the meantime, I’ll set him up with a warm bath.”

“Be sure to use the lavender candles.“

“Of course, I’m not a barbarian.”

“Come now, Tom. Up you get.”

Tom looks at the hands both Webb and Keegan hold out. He’s so fucking grateful for the both of them that he’s only barely holding back tears.

“Come along, Thomas,” Webb says, and takes Tom’s hand. 

“Let us take care of you,” Keegan says, and guides him to his feet. 

All that week Tom works long hours, trying to get into his fellow detectives' good graces.

He reads every single report from the past two months. Since no one wants to speak to him, he emails congratulations to officers who closed tough cases. He leaves written notes for others, with suggestions on how to make headway on stalled investigations.

He’s rewarded with a hello by the coffee machine, and forced smiles in the hallway, so he keeps at it, working late into the evenings. By Wednesday, he’s so exhausted he can’t bear the thought of the lengthy bus ride to the mansion.

He goes to his old flat instead, its dusty smell hitting him when he steps through the doorway. The place is like a disused hotel room, sparse belongings scattered on the impersonal furniture, no photos on the walls. 

He’s only been here a handful of times since he went on medical leave, to pick up some of his things. He feels like a stranger here, as he stands in his dark bedroom, staring at the lights of Belfast beyond his balcony door.

This place was cheap and practical and close to work; for his previous job and for the Paul Spector Task Force. Four years he’s lived here, not thinking much about it. 

He ate here, he slept here, he fucked here. But it was never home.

When Tom lies on the stale blankets of his creaking mattress, he doesn’t bother removing his clothes or shoes. He stares up at the ceiling, restless. Debating calling the brothers to ask for their private car. 

When Tom’s mobile vibrates he startles, hope swelling as he looks at the message.

_Keegan (20:38) Are you still at work?_

_Tom (20:39): At my flat. Long day. Thought I might crash here._

_Webb (20:43): Do what you must, Thomas._

_Keegan (20:43): Yes, we support you._

Tom drops his mobile and drags a pillow over his face, trying very hard not to think about what their messages really mean.

The routine repeats itself all week.

Tom moves like a ghost among the living at the precinct. Then he grabs a few hours sleep at his flat.

Every night he hopes for a text from the brothers. But either they mean what they said or they don’t care as much as he’d like, and his mobile stays silent, at least until Friday afternoon.

_Keegan (16:30): What toppings would you like for pizza night?_

For the first time all week, Tom smiles at his desk. 

_Tom (16:31): Do you even have to ask?_

_Webb (16:31): Someday we’ll break you of your disgusting culinary tastes, Thomas._

_Keegan (16:32): The word ‘culinary’ is far too generous for Hawaiian pizza. But so be it, Tom. It will be ready by six._

_Webb (16:33): Dis-gus-ting._

“You should move in," Keegan says, Saturday afternoon.

They’re all lazing about in bed, still in their pajamas. Webb is sat up writing a speech on his legal pad, Keegan is playing handheld video games, and Tom is laying happily between them, pretending he doesn’t have to go back to work ever again. 

Keegan’s offer is a splash of icy water, though, and Tom blinks opens his eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun. “What?”

“I said," Keegan huffs, “that you should just-”

"Keegan," Webb interrupts.

"But he-”

"Leave him be, brother," Webb says, in a tone that ends arguments.

Keegan tosses his iPad to the floor and flings himself on top of Tom, clinging to him like a toy about to be snatched away.

When Tom checks the news on his bus ride to work on Monday morning, he wants to smash his mobile against the window.

Donal’s trial has begun, and the story is every media outlet’s top feature. Everyone in the United Kingdom, apparently, wants to know about the corruption scandal that’s supposedly symptomatic of the failings of the PSNI.

When Tom reaches Serious Crimes Division, his reception isn’t indifference. It’s hostility.

Angry glares aren’t hidden, and resentful comments are no longer muttered. His emails are never marked read, his questions are never returned, his handwritten notes are thrown away- once while the officer intentionally made eye contact. 

"Give it time," Chief Inspector Fitzgerald tells him in the breakroom, when they’re getting coffee.

“Sure,” Tom says, as two of his former friends speak together across the room, eyes on him. 

The older woman sips at her drink. "You need any help on that Blonde Chemist Case I gave you?" 

"No, ma’am," he says, because he’s eager as hell to throw himself into an investigation. It’s an attempted murder, possibly unintentional, committed by a blonde woman who is drugging affluent businessmen at pubs. While under the influence the strange new designer drug, the men give her their financial assets. Most victims have recovered with a massive headache. The most man, however, is in a coma.

"Keep me informed," Fitzgerald tells him. 

When she leaves, Tom’s former friends both turn their backs. 

Tom doesn’t bother with overtime that week, not with the trial coverage on the news every damn day.

“I’m disappointed in your fellow officers,” Webb says, after Tom describes the mood at the precinct. Webb is undressing Tom by the bedside, as per their odd little ritual, removing Tom’s shirt as the three of them prepare for bed.

“I’m disappointed in them too,” Tom sighs out.

“Some people have no sense of integrity, Thomas. It’s a sad fact of life, but it’s true.”

“What’s true?” Keegan asks, padding into the bedroom from the ensuite in his pajamas, his toothbrush sticking out of his foamy mouth.

Webb rolls his eyes. "Ugh. Will you finish doing that in there?"

Keegan pulls his toothbrush from his mouth. "I'm just asking a question."

“Ask it without spraying it.”

“I’m not spraying anything-“

“What is that?” Webb asks, pointing at Keegan’s feet.

Keegan glances down, then up, then sticks his foamy tongue out at his brother, before stomping back to the bathroom, loudly brushing his teeth.

Tom laughs, the day’s tension already fading away. Their life is twisted and fucked up, that’s a given. But now that he’s here, in his insane twisted sanctuary with these two terrifying and ridiculous men, he feels a thousand times better.

"What I’m trying to tell you,” Webb says, and pokes Tom in the stomach, “is that you’re doing the right thing. It’s the others who aren’t doing their jobs, and should be severely reprimanded.”

“Won’t do any good,” Tom mutters. Today he’d to do at least three other people’s jobs, from chasing down leads to pulling archival documents. It’s bordering on obstruction of justice, the way he’s being treated as a pariah. But he’ll be damned if he reports it like the traitor they all think he is.

“Someone should do something,” Webb says, and that gets Tom’s attention, because he knows what the brothers can do. “Entirely hypothetical, Thomas, relax.”

“Sorry,” Tom murmurs, distracted now by how Webb is unbuttoning, then unzipping, Tom’s jeans. It never fails to be erotic, even after all these nights, the way Webb eases down both jeans and pants, palms pressed to Tom’s thighs over the bunching material until it’s bunched around his feet. 

His favorite part is next; Webb kneeling down to take off his socks and pull away his clothes. It puts Webb’s beautiful face right near Tom’s still-soft cock. Always has him twitching at the rare possibility of Webb using his beautiful mouth, as Keegan so willingly does.

Webb glances up at Tom’s groin, smirks, then looks up, blue eyes wicked and suggestive.

"I'll fall over if you do that," Tom admits, hating himself for saying it.

“Pity," Webb sighs, and presses a tender kiss to Tom’s prick.

“Jeezus,” Tom breathes out, and sways on his feet.

Hands steady his shoulders as Keegan steps up behind Tom’s back. “Now brother, you know Tom is much too tired for that.”

“Merely bestowing a good night kiss,” Webb says, and gets to his feet.

Their twisted little domestic scene has no business being endearing, but it is. “You’re both just so…”

Keegan pauses in picking up Tom’s pajamas. “Just so…what?”

 _Perfect_ , Tom thinks. _You’re so fucking perfect and I can’t believe that you want me, and I never want to imagine my life without you again._

“Thomas?” Webb asks.

Tom doesn’t answer; just shakes his head.

Webb and Keegan look at each other, expressions twitching in silent conversation, before Webb inclines his head toward Tom, and Keegan sighs, and starts dressing him for bed.

The only enjoyable part of Tom’s life in the police force is the Blonde Chemist case. It’s not going to be a murder- the hospitalized man is recovering. When he’s sufficiently well, Tom visits him in hospital, to take his statement.

"I had to tell her the truth,” says the man, from his hospital bed. He’s hooked up to IV tubes and heart monitors but he’s smiling faintly, as if recalling a fond memory. “It was the strangest fecking thing... She would ask me questions, and I would tell her everything, I would."

“You wanted to tell her?" Tom asks.

“Hell no, I didn’t. Except I did. Especially after I tried not to speak. It’s like... The more I tried not to, the better I felt when I did. I tell you, son, this was something else. Not even like those drugs they give you before surgery. When she asked a question I’d answer to anyone, the truth came spilling out. When she asked something I wanted to lie about, I’d feel like…”

Tom looks up from his notebook, and sees a serene expression on the man's face. “Like what?"

“I keep wanting to say sex, I do, but that’s not it. It’s more like…” The man pauses, then smiles. “Flying. That’s it. It was like flying.”

“Flying," Tom repeats.

“Aye," the man sighs out. “Free, is how it felt. That’s the core of it. I felt free.“

Tom glances at the man’s I.V., wonders what drugs he’s on.

Tom spends the afternoon wandering the Belfast streets in the rain; cool air and exercise always help puzzle out cases. He’s so deep in thought he’s startled by the vibrating of his mobile phone in his pocket. When he draws it out of his jacket, he smiles at the ID: “Webb/Keegan”. 

"Dia duit!” Keegan says, his American accent far too heavy on the Irish words. “Conas atá tú?" 

"Tá mé go maith,” Tom tells him, laughing. “And I’m impressed. Your “d” sounds are much better than yesterday.”

"As I recall, someone was distracting me yesterday."

"Distracting us both, brother," adds Webb's drawling voice.

"Well whose fault is that?" Tom asks. It had been Webb's idea, after all, to combine sex with the brothers' irish language studies. It's slower, but far more enjoyable than Tom's past irish lessons.

"We’re calling to give you news,” Webb says.

Tom stops walking. “News?”

“We’re being called out of town,” Webb goes on, and Tom can breathe again. “We’re not certain how long. We won’t be in touch until we've returned.”

Tom wants to ask where they're going, why so sudden. "All right," he says.

"The staff will see to your needs while we're gone," Keegan says. 

Tom hasn’t yet stayed in the mansion without them; hadn't even considered asking if he could. He's not sure if both brothers are comfortable with the suggestion, or if Keegan is just speaking out of turn, as he often does. 

"Thomas-" Webb begins.

"Is there anything I should do in the manor while you're away?" Tom asks quickly.

"Keep our bed warm?" Keegan asks.

"Brother-"

"Aye," Tom interrupts. "That I can do."

"Good," is the response.

For once, Tom's uncertain which one of them has spoken. "I'll see you later, then?" he asks, after an awkward pause.

"Be careful, Thomas."

"Yes, Tom, please do."

"Yeah," he says, though he wants to say more. “Yeah. Same for you both.” 

That afternoon at the precinct, Tom reviews all the past muggings on the Blonde Chemist case. It seems she's targeting only the pubs in the business district, but there are too many for Tom to start any stakeouts. If he can get at tax reports, he should be able to narrow down his list.

The lead officer on Informatics Team, though, sneers at him as Tom approaches the tiny alcove of three desks. When Tom hands him his written form, he realizes the man's last name matches one of the officers Tom arrested.

He's not surprised at the sound of crumpling paper as he walks away. 

Tom feels uneasy, approaching the mansion that night. The night is silent and cool as he walks through the gates and up the stone driveway to the grey stone mansion. 

Security guards nod at him as he passes, and when he reaches the front doors, they're unlocked. When Tom closes them, the echo rattles around the empty vestibule, off of palm trees and million dollar paintings and ancient statues. 

Without Webb and Keegan, the house feels like a museum, and Tom feels even more the dumb Belfast kid who blundered in from the streets. 

The next day, Tom doesn’t go to Serious Crimes. He calls in a favor from an old friend, and heads to Internal Affairs in south Belfast.

Their precinct office is filled with glass walls, clusters of desks occupied by energetic staff. Across the open floorplan Tom easily spots Claire Houghton, her ginger hair obvious even under her Police Constable's cap. 

"Tom Anderson!" she calls, when she sees him. 

“Hey Claire,” Tom says, grinning.

When he extends a hand, she swats it away, going up on her tiptoes to hug him. She's flustered when she steps back, apparently still something of the shy young officer he'd met in Operations Support.

“It’s so good to see a friendly face,” Tom says, only realizing how much he means it once the words are out. 

"It's good to see you too! I’m so glad you texted. I was wondering how you’re doing with everything that’s happened.”

“Been a bit busy.”

"I bet. You had eight weeks off, yeah? What’s that like?”

Tom stammers at that, not prepared to answer that question.

“You can tell me over lunch. But what do you think of the place?” she asks, and gestures around her.

“Very nice. Internal Affairs treating you well, then, is it?" 

"It really is. Much better than working for a bunch of corrupt misogynistic arseholes!"

Officers close by laugh at her outburst, and she laughs along. "This is Tom Anderson," she tells them. "The Tom Anderson. The bloke who brought down Donal's syndicate."

The hero's welcome that follows is shocking, and for the next ten minutes, Tom finds himself shaking hands with officer after officer, being told over and over again what a credit he is to the PSNI.

Fucking hell, maybe he should have come back to work here instead. 

It only takes five minutes for the Informatics team to give Tom the financial reports he needs, so Tom accepts Claire’s invitation to lunch at a local pub.

As they sit together at a corner table, Claire talks about the work she’s already been able to do since she’s transferred. She really is a damn good officer, with a passionate morality he envies. But then, if he were more moral, he wouldn’t have Webb and Keegan, would he.

"I smelled like blueberry pie for two weeks,” Claire says into his thoughts, finishing up a story about a drugs bust and a local bakery. “Charlie- that’s my cat- but not the new one, I mean. The old one, with the eye problem? Charlie wouldn’t come near me. He hates blueberries!”

“Glad you finally got the stains out,” Tom says, nodding at her police uniform.

“Oh they’re still there. But, you know. Blue, so…” 

“Just wait until you make Detective. Then you’ll have to worry about things like that.”

“Detective! God, Tom. One thing at a time!”

Tom can see it already, though, Claire leading her own precinct of officers. With her ambition and intelligence and passion, he has no doubt she’ll get there eventually.

“That’s enough about me,” Claire says, and picks a french fry from his half eaten plate. "It's your turn now. What’s been happening?”

"I haven't been back that long. I don't have much to report."

"I'm not asking you to report, Tom, feck's sake. I'm asking about you."

"Oh. Right." 

She watches him, curious, as he desperately thinks of what to say. Even when they'd worked together, he hadn't talked much about himself. He doesn't, typically, with his friends, though apparently he hadn’t actually had any of those at Serious Crimes. The only friends he has at all are Webb and Keegan. And even they- Well. There’s a lot they don’t know, and evidently aren’t interested in asking.

"Here’s an easier one,” she says. "What did you do during your time off? You were out a long while, yeah?"

"Two months."

"How's your shoulder feeling?"

“Really good. Pain’s finally gone, thank god.”

"Did you go through rehab? My mam did rehab when she hurt her knee on a tumble down the front steps last year. She was trying to reach this fecking windchime that drives me round the bend. Missed a step and fell. The rehab really helped though. Which one did you use?”

“Which- What?”

“She used Belfast Back and Physio. Antrim Road. That the one you went to?”

"No, I- It was a private thing, like.”

“Really? What sorts of exercises did they do?”

“Just- you know- the usual," Tom finishes, which is another lie. He’d had daily visits from Webb and Keegan's orthopaedist, full body massage three times a week from their sports therapist, and personal training sessions. He’s stronger now than before he was attacked by Paul Specter. 

"So… you do anything else then? I mean, eight weeks... You must have done something interesting, yeah?"

"Definitely interesting," Tom agrees, thinking of his life with Webb and Keegan Sherman. It’s a fecking fairy tale, is what it is. Decadent days and nights full of luxury and pampering and debauchery, with every single one of Tom's filthy fantasies as participant and voyeur coming true.

"Tom?" Claire asks. 

Tom shifts in his chair, tugging at his jeans. "Sorry?"

"I said, what else did you do?"

Tom picks up his fork; stabs at his salad. "Not much."

Claire leans forward, elbows on the table, and squints at him. 

Tom peeks up at her, trying not to cringe.

"So you're actually like this?" she asks, scrutinizing him like a suspect in an Interview Room. 

He refuses to look away, but it’s a near thing. "What’s that?"

"You’re being all…” She waves a hand at him. “Mysterious and shite. I thought you acted that way at Operations Support because you were investigating Donal. But that's not it. You’re just like this."

"I'm not mysterious,” Tom protests.

"Bollocks you aren't," she says, startling a laugh from him, the way she always does when she swears. "Getting anything out of you is like pulling blood from a stone, it is. If I didn't know better, DS Anderson, I'd say you were keeping the biggest secret in Belfast."

“Get on with yourself,” Tom says, but ducks his head as he eats, to hide that he’s flushing like a first year cadet. 

A few days' into Webb and Keegan’s mysterious trip, Chief Inspector Donal Moinahan's trial begins. When it does, every sordid detail of his criminal activities are released. 

The Belfast Intelligencer runs the story along with a list of PSNI failures. The Guardian runs it with an exposee of police corruption that reaches back to the Troubles. Every media arsehole is gleefully seizing the opportunity to pile on abuse. It's bad enough that Chief Inspector Fitzgerald is summoned to London, to meet with senior leadership.

Without her presence, the hostility in Serious Crimes becomes even more blatant. Some mornings Tom finds his desk stacked a foot high with newspapers bearing headlines filled with scandal. Other mornings, it's stacks of printouts of scathing website articles. 

The worst, though, is the angry letters from citizens, filled with profanity.

Each morning, Tom gathers everything up, and adds it to the growing stack he’s keeping on the floor. He doesn't report it, and doesn't bother trying to hide that it’s happening. If someone wants to confront him, then so be it; he'd welcome an open confrontation. 

But no one comes forward, and what's worse, not a single person defends him. 

Tom spends all his free time at Webb and Keegan’s mansion.

He tells himself he’s keeping watch on the place, even though security and staff are clearly working. Dinner appears on the table every day, as does lunch on the weekends.

At night, Tom crawls naked into their bed. He misses Webb unwrapping him like a strange Christmas present, misses even more how Keegan presses kisses to his bare skin as he dresses Tom in his pajamas. 

He can’t sleep without pillows stacked around him, imitating the weight of their bodies. It's terrifying, how much he misses them both. He aches for them, as he's never ached for anyone. He's desperate for a text, a phone call, for anything.

Those fucking romance movies suddenly make a hell of a lot more sense.

Though he’s tempted to reach out to Webb and Keegan, he doesn't, respecting their wishes.

Day after day he endures the silence. 

Night after night he falls asleep clutching their pillows. 

Tom begins working more and more often from Internal Affairs.

Claire, bless her, doesn't ask him why when he shows up. She just chats with him for a while, then gets him settled at an empty desk. 

It feels good, working with her again. She’s an official consultant, approved by her CI and his, an unusual working arrangement Tom suspects is because of his pariah status. He tries not to think about it, though, just happy to be able to bounce ideas of of her.

"Maybe she isn’t a Chemist,” Claire says one morning, as they sit at his desk looking over his notes.

“You mean she’s working with someone else?”

“No, just… Maybe she just has access to these designer drugs. She doesn’t seem that smart, you know? And she’s not exactly hiding what she’s doing. It’s like she’s showing off. Proud to be getting one over on these powerful arseholes.”

Tom laughs; he does that around her a lot. “Oh? So they’re arseholes then?”

“Aren’t all powerful men?”

That has Tom thinking of Webb and Keegan, far too fond. They’re powerful arseholes, absolutely, though never to him.

“This drug is so odd,” Claire says, as she studies a witness statement. “The more you tell the truth, the happier you get?”

"The more you _struggle_ not to tell the truth, the happier you get,” Tom says. “The harder you fight, the better the high. Works off the victim’s cortisol. Triggers a massive endorphin rush."

"Like a runner's high?"

"Or other pleasant experiences,” Tom says, grinning, and points to one of his notes.

Claire flushes, but she’s smiling as she glances at him. "So it’s a sexual rush?”

“The bloke said it was like flying.”

“Huh. Well that doesn't sound too bad."

Tom imagines being forced to tell the truth, no matter what, and that ends his laughing. "Depends on what kind of secrets you have to keep," he says.

"So," Claire begins, later that day over lunch. 

They’re sitting at their usual table in the corner, and Claire has been quiet, clearly working up to something. Tom puts down his silverware, bracing himself. “So?”

"Being back at Serious Crimes.”

Ah. They’re having that conversation.

She cringes at his expression. “Not going well?”

“It’s… not like it used to be.”

"How bad is it?"

"Light obstruction, mostly." His reports are processed, but it takes forever. His desk supplies keep going missing. His lunches keep disappearing, and when they don’t, the contents are mashed or coated with what, Tom doesn’t know.

The increasing harassment is starting to worry him. Anger and guns are never a good combination.

"Have you reported-?" She pauses, rolling her eyes at herself. "Of course you haven't. You’re _you_."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"You wouldn’t report them. I know how you are. Or, well, as much as any of your friends know you, I'd wager."

 _What friends besides you_ , Tom wants to ask. He can’t remember the last time he had a friend he could trust. University, maybe? Possibly before? 

He really likes Claire, and he trusts her, though he can’t even be a friend to her like she deserves. Friends talk about their personal lives, and though he could use someone to talk to about his problems, he doesn’t dare. If she really knew who he was, that would be the end of it. She’d look at him, disgusted, then disappear like everyone else always has.

"Hey..." Claire says, leaning i. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No, it’s fine. I’m just… I’m not good with people, yeah?”

“Which is why you joined the service?”

“You realize I work murder investigations,” Tom says, smiling.

“Pretty hard to offend the dead,” she agrees, wry.

Tom smiles, relieved that he has her in his life. “I’m glad,” he forces out, through his discomfort. “That we’re working together. That we’re. You know. Friendly. I mean friends. That’s, ehm. That’s nice.” 

Claire presses a hand to her chest. "My god, Tom, all this sincerity. I may faint!”

Tom laughs so loudly that people at the next table look at him strangely, but he doesn't care. When he finishes, she’s smiling, a little sadly.

"Maybe it'll get better after Donal’s trial is over,” she says, but it sounds like a question.

"You think so?"

Claire cringes, but doesn’t answer.

"Yeah," Tom sighs. That’s what he thought, too.

Two weeks after Webb and Keegan’s departure, Tom starts seriously considering the possibility that something bad has happened. 

'We're criminals', Webb had told him, the very first night they'd met. 'Sometimes things happen to bad people, as I'm sure you've encountered yourself.'

Every day Tom's nerves get more frayed with worry. He throws himself into the case, following every lead in Belfast. The Blonde Chemist strikes twice more during his investigation, at two of the pubs on Tom's list. This time she left the victims unconscious in an alley, one of them men landing in hospital when the drugs interacted with his medications.

Tom starts unofficial surveillance operations at night, telling no one. He visits pub after pub, an unobtrusive figure in black, watching and planning what he’ll need to do, to make himself her next target. 

After three weeks of the brothers being gone, Tom’s ready to smash every statue in the house.

He gets out of bed, throws on one of their robes, and marches barefoot into the night, straight for of the security officers.

"If something has happened to Webb or Keegan," Tom tells him, in the voice he uses with murder suspects, “you’ll tell me. You understand? I will be told, within the next hour. Am I making myself clear?"

Tom strides back to the house and sits in the vestibule for sixty minutes, gut churning.

When he isn't approached, it doesn’t ease his fear one bit. For all he knows, neither brother is alive to give the man information.

Two excruciating days later, Tom startles awake in the night to familiar voices. 

"Tom..."

"Thomas..."

The mattress shifts and the covers lift, a cool breeze bringing up goosebumps all over Tom’s bare skin. Warm hands start touching him, sliding down his back and up his sides, tender and reverent and- oh god- is this a dream?

Tom forces himself awake, blinking open his eyes to see Keegan and Webb kneeling at either side of him. They’re naked and beautiful in the moonlight outside the bedroom window, and Tom can’t speak through his choking relief- can only reach for them both.

“We’re so sorry,” Keegan chokes out, laying himself quickly in front of Tom’s body, hands cupping Tom’s face to press frantic kisses to his lips and cheeks and chin. Webb lays down behind him, pulling Tom closer, Keegan shoving himself along to stay as close as possible.

“Sweet Thomas,” Webb sighs, wrapping his arms around Tom and Keegan both.

Tom heaves in a loud stuttering breath, pathetic. He can’t stop shaking, he’s actually _crying_. “Sorry,” he rhasps. “I-“

“Stop, please stop,” Keegan whispers against Tom’s lips, sounding broken. “We missed you too- Missed you so _much_.”

"Yes, so very much," Webb says, arms tightening as he curls around Tom’s body.

Tom can feel his erection, hard and- oh god- already slicked up. "Please," he begs, and reaches back for Webb’s hip, pulling. “Please,” he whispers into Keegan’s mouth, and kisses the moan that follows.

“So perfect,” Webb whispers into his ear, as the blunt shape of his cock presses into Tom’s body. Keegan moans as well, and it takes Tom a moment to realize his own fingers are wrapped around Keegan’s cock, stroking.

"Oh fuck,” Keegan groans, the first time Tom’s ever heard him use profanity.

"You feel so _good_ ,” Webb says, so broken that Tom’s hips shove backward, needy, Webb shivering in response.

“Missed you,” Tom moans, as Webb fucks him. “Missed you so much,” he says, and speeds his hand on Keegan’s cock. 

Love you, is what he wants to tell them. Love you so much. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

It’s not long before Webb’s coming; shockingly fast. Keegan follows soon after, his surprised gasp high and as broken as Tom feels, his own hand shaking as it quickly strokes Tom to a shuddering orgasm, Webb’s cock still inside him.

For a while they lay in a sweaty tangle, all of them panting and breathless. 

"Good god,” Keegan sighs, eventually.

"Mmm, yes,” Webb sighs out, sounding drunk.

Tom is sticky and sweaty and the two men are too heavy upon him. He never wants to move from this spot ever again.

"You were worried about us," Webb says softly.

"Aye," Tom sighs. "That I was."

Webb’s arms go tighter around them both. It’s apparently one of those nights where Webb’s going to sleep with his cock inside Tom’s body. Keegan’s hand is still wrapped around his cock, possessive. 

"You kept our bed warm for us,” Keegan says softly. “Just like you promised."

"It’s a nice bed," Tom says.

“It’s even nicer when you’re in it.”

"Yes," Webb agrees. "It is.”

Tom pulls them both close, too overwhelmed to speak.


	3. Chapter 3

When Tom tries to get up the next morning, Keegan throws a heavy leg over Tom’s own, and rubs his cheek against Tom’s shoulder, like a needy housecat. "Call in sick," he murmurs.

"Keegan," Webb mumbles into his pillow.

"It's been three weeks, Webb."

"Mmm. That is true."

Tom slides his palm up Keegan’s bare back, fingertips tracing muscles, then turns his head on the pillow to press a kiss to the tip of Webb’s nose. ”I wish I could. But I have two witness interviews today."

“Don’t you have people to do that for you?” Keegan pouts.

"Some of us don’t have people,” Tom reminds him.

“Coworkers, then.”

When Tom sighs, Webb pushes himself onto an elbow, his blond hair sticking up everywhere, his neck bearing several red marks that Tom gave him. Irresistibly sexy. 

"Thomas,” Webb says, “are those officers _still_ treating you badly?"

"It's nothing.”

"Thomas."

Tom cringes, remembering how much the brothers detest lies. "It's Donal’s trial, is all. Stirring everything up.”

Keegan shoves himself up on Tom’s other side, and now he has both of them looking down at him, mirror images of worry. "What have they done to you?"

“Nothing to me. It’s just childish shite. Should be better once the trials are over."

"You're sure?" 

"My Chief Inspector thinks so."

Webb settles back on his stomach, frowning. "Someone should do something.”

“Webb-“ Tom says.

"I said should _._ We won’t do anything. We know you need your boundaries.”

Tom blinks up at the ceiling. What the hell does that mean?

“Go to work if you must,” Webb sighs out. “Keegan, let him up.”

“Fine. But tonight I get to take off Tom’s clothes and dress him in his pajamas both.”

“Agreed. But remember, we must first attend the French Ambassador’s reception this evening.”

“Ugh. The _French_. You hear that, Tom? You’re abandoning us to the French!”

Tom presses a kiss to Keegan’s pouting bottom lip. “Aye, it’ll be awful I’m sure. All those rich pastries and fine wines and pampering-”

“I’ll show you pampering,” Keegan says, and pulls Tom into an open-mouthed kiss with so much tongue that Tom feels like his teeth are being cataloged. Webb grabs Tom’s arse cheek while he’s distracted, and Tom laughs, breaking the kiss.

“Two against one,” Tom tells Webb. “That’s fighting dirty.”

“Dirty fighting.” Webb gives Tom’s arse another squeeze. “The best kind, wouldn’t you say, brother?”

Keegan hums and shoves his hand between Tom’s legs.

“Oi!” Tom scrambles back on the bed, laughing. He needs to get out of his bed or he’s going to miss his bus. “You’re incorrigible, both of you.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Webb says, and rolls onto his back, stretching his muscular arms over his head, kicking the blankets away to reveal an impressive morning erection.

It’s not fair, how the sunrise is shining upon it, like a monument to Tom’s crumbling willpower. He licks his lips. Swallows. Clears his throat. “I should go to work,” he says, mostly to himself.

“Keegan,” Webb drawls out, his eyes on Tom, his smile wicked. “I seem to have a situation that needs tending.”

Keegan props himself up on an elbow, tilting his head as he regards Webb’s erection. “You do indeed. Whatever shall we do about it?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Webb says, and folds his arms behind his head.

“My favorite thing,” Keegan says, and shifts down the mattress.

Tom stares. And then stares some more. And then-

Right. He’s definitely missing that bus.

Tom winds up rescheduling one appointment, but gets both interviews done. With notes in hand, he heads to Internal Affairs. Claire settles him in the desk that’s unofficially his, then works with their Informatics staff to further narrow down the potential pubs for a stakeout.

"What’s next for the case?” Claire asks him, as she walks him to the door that afternoon.

“I’ll head to the Raven's Head Pub on Saint Agnes Street. I think it’s more likely for her next target than the other pub we found. With any luck, I should-“

" _You_ should?” Claire asks. “Were you intending on going alone?"

“I know the place,” he assures her. “I’ve been there once already, a few weeks back, after I started casing the possible pubs for-“

"Have you been doing surveillance by _yourself_?" she demands, attracting stares.

"It's been fine-"

She slaps him on the arm. "It's not been fine!"

"Claire," Tom says, because people are staring, though most seem amused.

"Don't ‘Claire’ me! Feck's sakes, Tom. That's almost as crazy as you climbing the Sherman tree to spy on them like a-" she hesitates, realization dawning. 

“Go ahead,” Tom sighs. “Say it.”

“Like a Peeping Tom,” she chokes out, through laughter.

Tom isn’t embarrassed, though she’s more right than she suspects. Hearing her say what he’s been doing- Yeah, he definitely sounds mental. He is, for more reasons than she knows.

She smacks him again, harder. 

"Oi!"

"You fecking lunatic! You’re not working surveillance tonight without backup. Besides, most of her targets had female companions. So tell me what time to be there. You need someone fool enough to make sure you don’t wind up in hospital.”

_Tom (17:58): I'll be working late tonight._

_Webb (18:02): Just as well. This bothersome reception for the French Ambassador is only now getting underway._

_Keegan (18:03): There’s been four speeches! And they haven’t even served the first course!_

_Webb (18:03): The dessert table, however, is just sitting there, looking tempting._

_Keegan (18:03): At least the take home packages should be delectable._

_Webb (18:03): We'll bring a sampling back to the mansion for you, Thomas._

_Tom (18:04): What sorts of things will there be?_

_Keegan (18:05): There are several items that would be especially appealing if you were to be wearing them, Tom. Without clothes. ;)_

_Webb (18:05): The mousse au chocolat?_

_Keegan (18:06): You know me too well, brother._

_Webb (18:05): The eclairs also show promise._

_Keegan (18:05): They're nearly large enough to be worn in an especially enticing manner._

_Webb (18:05): Not large enough for our Thomas._

_Keegan (18:05): Sadly no. Let's ask the chef to make us a custom order._

_Webb (18:05): Excellent suggestion, brother._

_Tom (18:06): Will you two stop? I'm still at work. Keep this up and I'll need to excuse myself to the loo._

_Keegan (18:07): Now there's a good idea. For us as well._

_Webb (18:07): Yes, and it would save us from listening to these endless speeches._

_Keegan (18:07): Where in this villa does the french ambassador have his personal lavatory?_

_Webb (18:07): I'm certain we can find it. I'll leave the ballroom first. You follow in a few minutes._

_Tom (18:08): You’re not seriously going to fuck in the french ambassador's loo._

_Tom (18:11): Really though._

_Tom (18:15): Oh my god you are, aren't you._

_Tom (18:16): Holy shit I wish I were there._

_Tom (18:22): ..._

_Tom (18:43): ?_

_Tom (18:54): srsly? still??_

_Tom (18:58): !_

_Webb (19:10): Well. That was refreshing._

_Keegan (19:10): And they’re actually done all the speeches!_

_Webb (19:11): They’re serving the first course at last. Enjoy your evening, Thomas._

_Keegan (19:11): We’ll see you at home later tonight!_

When Tom’s shift at work is over, he heads to the locker room, to change into Webb’s eight thousand dollar tailored Armani suit, and Keegan’s thousand dollar Dolce shoes. When he adds the diamond cufflinks and gold threaded necktie, he has to admit that he looks pretty damn good. With any luck, the mugger will target him tonight, and Claire will be there to help make the arrest.

He gets a cab to the pub, then waits for Claire by the door. When she arrives in her own cab, she nearly trips up the kerb at the sight of him. 

"Holy hell,” she says, as she approaches. 

“Not bad yourself,” Tom tells her, because she’s wearing a lovely red blouse and skinny blue jeans, her auburn hair loose over her shoulders. She’s attractive, enough to hopefully get the attention of their mugger.

They get other people’s attention too, as they walk into the Raven’s Head Pub. It’s one of those trendy modern pubs with upscale food and soulless décor. Patrons are in business clothes, no college students in sight. A perfect high end crowd.

With Claire at his side, Tom finds a spot at the bar, checking his appearance in the mirror behind the rows of booze.

"If I didn't know you, I'd say you were a rich toff myself," Claire tells him, after Tom orders them drinks. 

He lifts his whisky, laughing, and she toasts him with her soda.

It's busy enough that they're pressed shoulder to shoulder, even when Tom half turns from the bar to survey the crowd. The music is a little loud beneath the conversation, so Claire shifts closer when she speaks. 

"I want to thank you,” she tells him. 

Tom sees a flash of blonde hair by the door… but no. Just a bloke leaving with his girl. "Thank me?"

"For getting me in with Internal Affairs."

"You earned that place yourself."

"I know, but… I'm just saying. I appreciate you putting a word in with CI Fitzgerald. Opening that door for me. You didn't have to do that." 

"Of course I did." Only a cretin would have left her in Operations Support, to deal with the stain of corruption she’d helped him reveal. Tom may live in the grey area of morality, but he would never do that to someone like her.

"We work together pretty well, don't we," she says, and tucks her hair behind her ear.

"That we do.”

"Yeah. And, ehm, it’s got me thinking..."

"About what?"

"About- maybe- us going out somewhere sometime?"

"Are we not somewhere now?" 

"No, I mean… Together. Go out together. On a date, like."

Tom looks at her, stunned.

"We get on well," she says in a nervous rush, her green eyes so sincere and so young, and holy hell she means it, she's actually asking him out- "And we work well together, and we have fun together, and we're already good friends, so I thought why not try to have a go at-"

"Claire-" Tom interrupts, far too abrupt.

She presses her lips together, nervous.

"There's…" Another person, Tom wants to say, but can’t. He can’t tell her the truth, but doesn’t want to lie to her either. He winds up staring at her, pained, like a witless idiot.

"Oh,” Claire says, crestfallen, as possible excuses are still tumbling around Tom's head. "Right. Well. That’s… fine. It was just a thought. No big deal.” She swallows, lips thin, looking ill. “I'm going to use the loo, hey? Keep a watch. I'll- you know. Be right back."

Tom watches her elbow her way through the crowd, then turns back to the bar. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, and leans forward on his elbows. “Fucking _fucking_ hell,” he adds, then downs his whiskey and calls for another.

It’s just like him, to mess up the one good relationship he has. He doesn’t think he’s been leading her on, but- fucking hell- how would he know? He’s so bloody awful with basic human interaction that it’s pathetic. It’s shocking that Webb and Keegan haven’t yet tossed him out on his arse.

Tom thinks of them now, at that French ambassador’s reception. They’re probably swanning through the crowd of rich diplomats like sharks, deciding which one to target for their artistic treasures.

A cold glass bumps against the back of his fingers, and Tom lifts his head, but the bartender is already gone. Tom is left to stare stupidly at his reflection, wondering when he got so flushed and so visibly drunk. His hair is messed up from when he pulled it. When Tom runs his hand through it, the strands feel unbelievably soft. 

He’s thirsty, really thirsty, so he picks up his new whiskey and gulps that down too. When it’s empty, he licks his lips, _still_ fucking thirsty. Christ, what do they put in their drinks here, salt?

"Looks like you need another,” says a woman's voice.

Tom blinks at her as she stands by his side, blonde and beautiful with lips painted a rich dark red that has him staring. “Red,” he says, and points at her mouth.

She smiles and presses a glass of whisky into his hand. "Drink up. Nice and fast.”

"All right," Tom says, and downs the entire thing. 

“That’s a lovely jacket you have there," she says, pressing close to his side. “Let’s see what you’re carrying, shall we?”

Tom watches her reach into his pockets, to pull out his wallet. She holds it under the bar as she rifles through its contents.

"Only two hundred fifty dollars?" she says, and pockets his money. "Well. At least there’s three promising cards. And I know for sure one of your banks has automated withdrawal. How much money do you have in your account, handsome?"

"Five thousand."

"Come now, darling. Tell me the whole truth. How much money could you really get your hands on, if you tried?"

Tom thinks of Webb and Keegan, and the contents of their mansion. "A few hundred million."

Her red lips part on a gasp. "A few… _hundred…_ million?"

"Yes."

"God in heaven…" She grabs his arm, nails digging in. "Get up. You’re walking out of here with me, right _now_."

Tom does what she asks, but then there’s a shout of ‘ _stop_!’, and everything gets confusing after that. People are shoving and Tom finds himself down on the floor, where he lays, unmoving, as feet stomp around him and shouts echo all around.

At some point he feels a hand on his back, and hears Claire, very nearby. "Tom? God- Tom, are you all right?"

"Yes," he says to the floor.

"Thank _god_. Can you get up? Try to get up for me now."

Tom stands up then stumbles back against the bar, everything swimming around him. Claire is clutching his jacket, and looks like she’s been hit, a red scuff on her cheek below her green eyes. 

"Look at the size of your pupils,” she says, then turns to shout across the strangely quiet pub. "How much of that shit did you give him?"

"Fuck off!" shouts another woman's voice.

"Take her out of here," Claire yells, to a group of police by the door.

Tom doesn't know when they got here, or what they want. It doesn't bother him, though. Nothing does. 

“How many of those did you drink?” Claire asks him, and holds up a plastic bag holding a whiskey glass.

"Three."

“Bloody hell- We need to get you to A&E. Right _now_.”

Hospital gowns are itchy. Itchy and drafty and they feel really odd. It’s weird, to be wearing a hospital gown and trousers. Why has he got his trousers on anyway? And his shoes. Shoes and a hospital gown. Not a good look. 

"Not a good look," he says.

"You’ve mentioned," says a voice, and Tom looks over to see Claire sitting by an I.V. stand. The I.V. tube is connected to his arm. 

"I have an I.V.," Tom states, and lifts his hand.

"Yes, I know," she says, sounding weary. 

“Oh.”

“How are you feeling?"

"My hospital gown is itching my back in the middle and I can't reach it to scratch. There's a draft on my sides and my tongue feels like it’s too thick. And the lights above my bed are too bright. They hurt my eyes when they flicker on and off." Tom thinks a moment. "Also I'm not as thirsty as I was before. But I have to take a piss."

Claire stares at him, then huffs out a laugh. "That is very possibly the longest answer you've ever given me."

Tom smiles stupidly in the afterglow of several little sighs of pleasure. He’d felt one each time he’d answered her question. He hopes she asks him some more.

"That’s the drugs making you do that, by the way,” she tells him. "They won't wear off completely until tomorrow. They've given you fluids to counter the dehydration, and you haven't had a reaction, so that's good. Understand?"

“No. But it’s okay,” he adds, when she looks worried.

“It’s okay?”

"Yes, because you’re my friend and I trust you.” He doesn't understand now why he hasn't told her this truth before. It's pretty obvious, even to him, and he's not that smart with relationships. "I'm not smart with relationships," Tom adds, because that’s the truth too.

"Right, well... Thanks. I think."

"You're welcome."

“Christ,” she says through a breath of laughter, because apparently he's being funny. "Right. So. Your doctor said you can be discharged after the I.V. hydration is done. It's dependent on someone being able to look after you the rest of the night, though. Can someone do that? Is there someone I should call? I don’t know of your home situation, exactly, so I’m not sure."

Tom stares at her, confused.

"You can leave the hospital," she says, slower. “But only if you have someone to take care of you. Do you have someone?"

"Yes." 

"You do?" 

"Yes."

“Oh. That’s…” She sits back in her chair. "Well now I really feel like an eejit."

"What?"

"Nothing. Doesn't matter. I'll let the doctor know, eh?" She stands up, and deposits a plastic bag with his wallet and cell phone and some paperwork on the chair. "We arrested the blonde woman, by the way. Piece of work, she was. We were right about this being personal. She was bragging her head off about all the men she mugged before you.”

“I was mugged?” Tom asks.

“Bloody hell,” Claire mutters, and leaves.

When the nurse arrives, she makes sure Tom can use the loo and can dress himself on his own. She tells him to get in the wheelchair she's brought and he does, riding through one corridor after another until they stop on the pavement by a circular driveway. 

As the nurse walks under the lamplights to get a cab, Claire crouches down by the side of Tom’s wheelchair.

“How are you feeling, Tom?”

"This chair is pinching my right leg and cutting off my circulation." He shifts, his shoes scuffing against the metal footrests. "I usually can wiggle my toes but I can't right now. But my right foot is extra big and these aren't my normal shoes so maybe they’re just too tight on my feet."

Claire laughs as Tom smiles his head off from the little swell of pleasure. "Fecking hell it's weird for you to be like this.”

"Oh. Sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry for being drugged."

"Okay. I won't."

Claire rubs her face and mumbles something into her hand. 

A car horn distracts him, as a black cab stops behind a city bus. People in hospital scrubs get into and out of it, beneath the glow of the streetlight.

"I just realized I don’t know where you live," Claire says. "I hope I’m not going to be riding with you all the way to Dublin.”

"You’re riding with me?”

"Course I am. I'm not going to dump you in a cab like this, feck's sake, Tom. I'll take you home to yours, then have the cab take me to mine after you're safely handed off to... to whoever is waiting for you. But I’ll be needing to know where it is we’re going, otherwise we’ll be riding around in circles all night.”

Tom nods and nods but apparently she’s finished talking. "Okay?"

"God in _heaven_. Tom! What’s your _address_?"

Tom doesn’t want to answer, he _doesn’t_ \- But then a wave of pleasure washes through his body, making him shudder, sweeping away his resolve. "Seven fifty five Larchmont Street, Queen's Quarter."

Claire sets her hand on his arm and she leans closer, wind blowing her red hair into her eyes. "That's not right."

Tom blinks at her, dizzy. "No?"

"No. That's the address of Webb and Keegan Sherman. I parked outside of their house enough times during our stakeout to know that one by heart."

"Yes,” Tom says, because he remembers that, the stakeout and Claire in the surveillance car.

"I wasn't asking you for their address. I was asking you for yours. Where do _you_ live?"

Another struggle; another rush of orgasmic pleasure. "I live at seven fifty five Larchmont Street, Queen's Quarter.”

Clare stares at him. "That's... not possible."

She’s unhappy, but Tom doesn’t understand why. He's telling her the truth. Maybe he left something out?

"Sometimes I stay at my flat," Tom explains. "But only if I work really late. I haven’t done it in a few weeks. I’m usually at the mansion with Webb and Keegan."

"That’s _actually_ the truth?”

"Yes.”

"You _live_ with Webb and Keegan Sherman?"

Another struggle; another massive surge of pleasure. "Yes.”

"How long have you lived there?" Claire demands.

"Three months.”

"Are you having me on?'

“No.”

"If it's true then you must have their private phone numbers on your mobile, yeah? If you're so close to Webb and Keegan, then must be texting or emailing or something, right?"

"Yes."

She pulls his mobile out of the plastic bag of his belongings. "Unlock it." 

When he does, Claire pokes at the screen until she must find what she wants. "Oh," she breathes, and swipes up the screen. “Oh, that’s-“ Her eyes grow wide, and she shoves his mobile back in the bag, cheeks flushed red.


	4. Chapter 4

Tom sits alone in the cab while Claire paces the pavement.

She goes past his window ten times, then stands really still for a while, then climbs in and collapses in the seat opposite him.

He's glad she's there, even though she's really quiet. It's peaceful in the dark back seat as they drive through the city, the streetlights washing over the windows. They make intricate patterns of light slide over the seats, the glass, Tom's clothing. 

For a while, the world goes by and by outside the windows. Tom watches it go; the houses and the river and the cars.

"Are you a dirty cop?" Claire asks.

"No," Tom says, surprising himself. It’s true, though, and the realization makes him want to cry in relief, though he doesn’t understand exactly why. 

"So you weren’t involved in Donal's crime syndicate?"

"No.”

"Are you involved in any police corruption right now?"

"No."

"But you're living with the Sherman twins?"

"Yes." 

"Why?"

Tom fights hard this time, he doesn’t want to tell her, but- _oh_ \- oh _god-_ Tom’s head tips back, and he shudders, violent, the rush even better than orgasm. "We're in a relationship," he chokes out.

"Who is?”

“Webb and Keegan and I,” Tom says, singsong and dizzy, shivering through even more aftershocks. “We’re in a relationship- we’re in a fucking _threesome_ \- and it’s fucked up but I don't _care_ , I don’t, because they understand me and they support me and they give me more affection than I’ve ever had, and it’s a goddamn dream living with them, better than any fantasy, even without the mind-blowing sex, which- mother of god- the sex is just-“

"Stop!” Claire says, grabbing his arm. “Tom! Stop talking!"

“All right,” Tom sighs out, and collapses, panting, against the seat. 

The cab drives north into the affluent suburbs, both of them entirely silent.

_Tom (21:05): This is Claire Houghton. One of the police constables who worked surveillance with Tom on the stakeout of your house, remember? Sorry about that, by the way. I'm here with Tom now, in a cab heading to your address. He was drugged tonight, and was in hospital, but was released._

_Tom (21:06): Claire here again – I should mention that the drug makes a person EXTREMELY willing to tell the truth. I didn't mean to intrude on your personal lives *again* by asking Tom where he lives. That’s what happened, though. I'm sorry about that. Rest assured that your private life will stay private. The PSNI has done you enough harm, and I wouldn't hurt Tom, even though he and I definitely need to have a talk once he's back to being his usual self. Just figured I'd let you know. And I figured I’d let Tom know too, whenever he gets around to reading these texts._

_Webb (21:10): Thank you so much, Police Constable Houghton._

_Keegan (21:10) Yes, words cannot express our gratitude._

When they reach the Sherman mansion, Claire pulls Tom out of the car. Tom follows along through the gates and down the driveway, stumbling his way up the stone steps.

Webb and Keegan stand side by side in their matching pajamas in the open front doors, their handsome faces both clearly worried. 

"Come in, come in," Keegan says, and closes the doors behind them.

Claire stops walking, so Tom does too, even following her gaze up at the marble columns and statues and paintings that fill the entrance hall. 

Hands cup Tom’s face, and he blinks at Keegan, standing before him. 

"Look at his _pupils_ , Webb. Are we certain he shouldn’t be in the hospital?”

"Calm yourself, brother. I’m certain PC Houghton wouldn't have done anything against doctor's orders.”

Claire looks from Webb to Keegan to Tom, looking stunned. 

“Ms Houghton?” Webb asks, and though he’s trying to hide it, Tom can hear the worry. 

“Sorry,” Claire says, and hands over the bag of Tom’s things. "Instructions on what to do are on his patient discharge papers. He’ll need looking after. Through the night, I mean.”

“Of course, thank you,” Webb says, and takes Tom by the arm, pulling him away from Claire.

"Are you in any pain, Tom?" Keegan presses, moving to his other side.

"No," Tom tells him. 

“Are you able to walk upstairs?” Webb asks.

“Yes.”

Tom watches Webb and Keegan look at each other, and then at Claire. 

She shrugs, giving Tom a wistful look. “He tends to do that. Yes and no answers. You’ll need to be more general with your questions to get anything else.”

“Yes, of course,” Webb says. “Thomas, tell us what you want.”

“Yes,” Keegan adds. “Whatever you want in the world.”

A desperate struggle, and then a tidal wave of rewarding pleasure. "I want to move in with you,” he tells them, dizzy. “I want to wake up with you both every morning, and I want to fall asleep with you both every night, and I want to tell you that I love you every single day, because I do, I love you both, I love you-“

Tom heaves in a breath, the pleasure crashing over him now, obliterating. 

The world tilts, his head tips back, and he’s flying.

“Drink this.”

Tom cringes at the voice. His head aches and even his eyes hurt.

“This will help, Thomas. The instructions say you need to drink water every hour.”

He feels a cold glass pressed into his limp hand where it rests on the mattress. He’s in bed. He doesn’t remember going to bed.

“We sat him up first last time.”

“You’re right, brother. Together?”

Tom feels himself heaved up, held against a warm chest covered in silk. Tender fingers lift his chin. A cool glass presses to his lips. And he drinks.

“There you are, Thomas.”

Tom shudders when he’s done. “Bitter.”

“Just something for your head.”

“And electrolytes to flush the rest of the drug out of your system.”

Drug, Tom thinks. What drug? He opens his eyes; closes them again at the painful light filling the room.

“It’s all right, Thomas. Keep sleeping.”

“Yes, Tom. You’ll feel better soon.”

“We’ll be here.”

“We won’t leave you.”

A soft kiss to Tom’s temple. “Not ever.”

Tom wakes slowly, his body too heavy on the silk sheets and too warm under the blankets. It’s tempting to slide away again into darkness. 

But he has a horrible taste in his mouth, and his stomach is so empty that it hurts when it growls. His thoughts are sluggish; he doesn’t know what day it is. Was he out drinking?

"Good afternoon," drawls Webb's voice.

Tom opens his eyes to the brothers’ bedroom. The curtains drawn, everything softly lit by the lamp on Webb’s table by the window. Webb is in his pajamas, and at first Tom thinks it’s the evening, but a glance at the wall clock says it’s the afternoon, not yet dinner.

Webb closes his laptop and picks up his mobile. After a fast text, he rises and approaches the bed. “Do you want anything?”

The question is familiar enough to pierce Tom’s stupor.

In a horrible nauseating rush, he _remembers_.

"Shit shit shit _shit_." Tom twists onto his back, palms pressed to his eyes, silk pajamas pulling tight around him. Oh god oh fuck- The _things_ he said- They won’t want him anymore- He’s going to lose _everything_ -

The mattress dips and shifts, Webb moving to Tom’s side. “Thomas, stop-“

“I’m sorry,” Tom chokes out.

"Please,” Webb begs, so anguished that Tom drops his hands to the mattress. “Whatever you’re thinking, I beg you, _please_ let me explain before you draw the wrong conclusions.”

The uncharacteristic vulnerability is unnerving and unfamiliar. He’s never seen Webb like this, never suspected this side of him at all.

“I’m the one who is sorry,” Webb tells him. “It’s my fault you didn’t understand our intentions. Keegan wanted to tell you plainly, but I stopped him, and I shouldn’t have done it. It’s my-”

Both of them startle at a clatter by the door. Keegan elbows it open, carrying a tray full of covered plates. "You started already?”

"He was upset,” Webb says.

“Whose fault is that?” Keegan snaps, and Webb- Tom can’t believe it- but Webb closes his mouth, deferential. “Did you give Tom his water and medicine?”

“I was getting to that.”

“Every four hours, Webb!” Keegan drops the tray to the table by the window, then picks up the glass by Webb’s laptop, and carries it to the bed. “Here you are, Tom. Drink this.”

Tom sits up and takes the glass, realizing as he does it that Keegan’s silk pajamas don’t match Webb’s blue ones. They match the ones Tom’s wearing; dark green with his initials.

“It’s a reminder,” Keegan says, “about who should be _listened_ to, when it comes to you.”

“Yes, brother,” Webb says.

Tom drops his glass onto the bed. “Sorry,” he says, hastily brushing away water droplets. 

“Never mind that,” Keegan tells him, stilling the movements of his frantic hands. “Is your headache any better?”

“Yes,” Tom answers, with a glance at Webb, who is still strangely silent.

“Good,” Keegan says. “We followed the hospital instructions to the letter, waking you regularly for your water and taking you to the bathroom. What about the rest of you? Any ill effects? How are you feeling?”

Humiliated is one answer. Terrified is the other. Both have Tom ducking his head, picking at the blanket, waiting for his inevitable dismissal.

“Don’t,” Webb says, and takes hold of Tom’s wrist. “Please don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Tom says, and soothes the blanket.

Keegan punches Webb in the arm. “You see? Self esteem issues!”

“All right, Keegan,” Webb snaps at him, rubbing the spot he was punched.

“I told you Tom needs more positive reinforcement! I wanted to tell him that we loved him weeks ago! And now look what happened!”

“Wait,” Tom says, and struggles to sit up. “What did you say? You… love me?” 

“Yes!” Keegan tells him, exasperated, as if this should be obvious.

Tom looks at Webb, stunned. “Both of you?”

“Yes,” Webb says, pained. “Both of us. Keegan wanted to tell you sooner, but I didn’t listen. I wanted to give you your space. Let you be sure of your decision.”

Tom can remember those moments, of Webb holding himself back, of Webb holding his brother back—all out of respect for Tom’s life and Tom’s boundaries. 

“You actually were just giving me space,” Tom says, astonished. 

Webb pulls Tom into a tender kiss, then leans away, resting their foreheads together. “Move in with us,” he says, soft. “Wake up with us every morning, and fall asleep with us every night, and tell us you love us, whenever you want, because we love you too.”

Tom looks over at Keegan and finds him nodding. 

“You’re ours, Tom,” Keegan tells him. “Be ours.”

Tom’s breathing is rough and loud as he reaches for them, breathing _yes_ , and _yes_ again against their lips.

In the wake of his hospitalization, the PSNI offers him three days off.

Tom answers with a request for indefinite absence. 

_Tom (19:20): I want to thank you for all you did for me. At work, and in the hospital, and after. You’re a good person. You’ve been a good friend. Better than I have been to you. For that, I’m sorry._

_Claire (19:32): I’ve typed like 10 responses, but deleted them all. There’s too much to say. Can we talk in person?_

_Tom (19:33): Okay._

_Claire (19:34): The pub by Internal Affairs. Tomorrow at noon?_

_Tom (19:34): I’ll see you there._

Tom is sick with nerves by the time he arrives at the pub. When he spots Claire sitting at their corner table, his stomach lurches.

Her hair is pulled back today, her uniform jacket buttoned all the way up. It looks like she’s ready for a parade. Or a firing squad.

As he crosses the pub, he stumbles over a chair, then knocks into a table. When he reaches her, he knocks silverware off the table, then bangs his elbow as he picks it up. 

By the time he sits down, she has a hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Right,” Tom huffs out, and reaches down to get his fork, only to nearly tip off his chair. “Bollocks!”

“Oh my god,” she chokes out. "You're just a complete catastrophe, aren't you.”

"Thought you knew that already," Tom says, meaning his clumsiness, but belatedly realizing it could mean what had happened after the hospital.

Claire stops laughing, and her smile fades.

Tom shifts in his chair. Wishes like hell he had something to drink.

She draws in a breath, steeling herself for whatever she's going to tell him.

"I'm sorry," Tom says.

The breath huffs out of her. "What?"

"For lying to you about my personal life.”

"You didn’t lie. You just didn’t tell me everything.”

“That is definitely a kind of lying, and it wasn’t right, and I’m sorry,” Tom says. “Ever since I was drugged I’ve been thinking about how I hold back the truth. Not only from other people but from myself. It’s nearly ruined the best parts of my life, including our friendship. You didn’t deserve it, and so… Yeah. I’m sorry.”

She blinks at him, then sits back in her chair. “Wow. That was something, right there.”

Tom’s flushes, heart beating too fast at his confession. He’s still uncomfortable just saying whatever’s in his mind and heart with no filter. It’s like jumping across a ravine- that heady moment at the top of your arc- half falling, half flying.

“It was pretty impressive,” Claire tells him. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I feel like I should give you a trophy.”

"A- _What_ -?"

"In celebration of you saying so many personal things in a row. While not drugged, I mean.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he tells her, wanting to cringe at that particular memory. Fucks’ sakes, he’d gone on about his sex life with Webb and Keegan. 

“Yeah, well, it was certainly memorable for me.”

Tom does cringe this time. “Can we just pretend that never happened, like?”

“Absolutely not. No way in hell.”

“For fuck’s sakes-“

“Oh look it’s our food,” Claire says, smiling across the table at him as the waiter puts down their plates. “Thanks,” she tells the man, as he leaves.

Tom stares down at his burger and fries. “You ordered us both food?”

“Well I did invite you, didn’t I?” She reaches across the table; steals one of his fries. “Not in the mood for your usual?”

Tom suspects she’s making a gesture, trying to smooth things over between them. But he needs to be clear, especially after his recent near catastrophic misunderstandings. “Are you actually still wanting to be friends?”

She puts down her silverware and folds her hands on the table. “Do you still want to be friends with _me_?”

“Why would I not want that?”

“Because I violated your privacy, Tom,” she says in a rush. “I asked you questions even though I knew you had to answer them. You had no choice but to tell the truth. I knew that. What kind of friend does that make me? What kind of police officer?”

“You didn’t mean anything by it-“

“And neither did you,” she insists. “But you apologized, so let me. I’m sorry, yeah? I shouldn’t have done it. I was just… After what happened with Donal, with him lying to me for so long and me never seeing it… But it’s no excuse. What I did was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

This time Tom is left staring. “Wow,” he says finally. “That was something, right there.”

“Oh shut your gob,” Claire huffs, and throws a fry at him.

“I should get you a trophy-“

“A trophy for putting up with you and your drama, you mean?”

“Drama?” Tom asks, and already he can feel them both relaxing back into their natural rhythm, the push and pull of their odd little friendship, this relationship born of corruption and scandal and Tom being drugged half off his arse. 

“Yes, drama,” she’s telling him. “Having two boyfriends is definitely drama, Tom-“

“Claire-“

“I mean seriously, just one of the Sherman brothers wasn’t enough?”

“No!”

Claire nearly tips off her chair laughing.

When lunch is over, they stand outside the pub’s door, sheltered from the rain. 

“One more thing to tell you.” Tom shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sure I’m coming back to the service. I’ve taken indefinite leave.”

She looks shocked at first, then worried. “God, Tom, if things are really that bad at Serious Crimes-“

“It’s not that. This has been building a while. I have this bad habit, of forcing myself to fit where I don’t belong. And not admitting to myself the places where I do fit best.”

“Like with Webb and Keegan?” she asks, wistful, and Tom remembers how she’d asked him out, what a leap that had been. 

“Yeah,” he tells her. “With Webb and Keegan. The PSNI was right for me once, but… not anymore.”

“You seemed to enjoy working at Internal Affairs.”

“I enjoyed working with you. It’s not the same.”

She crosses her arm, eyes him from under her police hat. “Maybe you could be detective for hire. You’d be good at that, I think. Reckless, slightly mental-“

“Slightly, thanks for that-“

“Good at climbing trees and scaling fences getting coworkers to hate you-”

“You’ll do my public relations then, will you?”

“Walk me back to the precinct. I have some ideas.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector Houghton.”

She slaps his arm as they start walking. “Oh stop.”

“You just wait,” he says.

Her answering smile is blinding.

"What is _this_ ," Webb drawls out, as he plucks a photo frame from one of the boxes Tom is unpacking. “Who is this sweet little urchin, hmm?”

Keegan moves to stand behind his brother’s back, chin resting upon Webb’s shoulder to peer at the photo Webb holds up. "Is that little Tom?”

“Yes, and look how precious.”

“Give me that,” Tom says, walking past the stacks of boxes to try and grab the photo.

"That’s a Star Wars t-shirt," Keegan says, delighted, as he carries the photo to the window overlooking the mansion front lawns, where the afternoon light shines through the tall windows.

All of Tom’s belongings are here, in this former guest room that Webb and Keegan have given him as his own. He has a desk and bureaus and a small bed, but Tom doesn’t expect to spending too much of his actual time here. He appreciates them giving him his own dedicated space, though. A place where Tom’s life can permanently coexist with their own.

"The Empire Strikes Back, I approve,” Keegan says, holding up the photo to the sun. “Now there’s a good suggestion for movie night.” 

“And what’s _this_ ,” Webb asks, pulling a stuffed bear from a box. “Does he have a name, hmm? Keegan’s stuffed bear had one.”

“Bartholemew,” Keegan notes. 

“That’s right. It was Bartholemew Bradenton Bear.”

“And now he has a friend, brother.”

“Yes, he does. What more is there in this treasure trove, one wonders.”

Tom crosses his arms as Webb starts digging through the box without removing anything else. Though they’d both volunteered to help him unpack, it’s been largely symbolic. They’ve dressed the part, though, in blue jeans and white t-shirts. They look so sexy that Tom definitely doesn’t mind the mess they’re making.

“Oh, look, brother, a school photo album.“

Tom shakes his head and starts unpacking a box full of his clothing. 

“Oh just look how adorable Thomas is…“

“Look at that cherubic face!“

“And here he is, in the school play…”

“An angel, how completely apt.”

Tom turns around to tell them to knock off their teasing.

But when he sees Webb and Keegan pressed shoulder to shoulder, turning the pages of his school book with reverence, he realizes that there’s not a bit of teasing in their voices or expressions. They look fascinated and engrossed in the stupid little history of Tom’s life. 

Watching both of them, in his room in their mansion, Tom can barely breathe for how much he loves them both. 

He wants to tell them both, desperately. 

And so he does.


End file.
